Free The Prodigal Son by Kate Sedley Page B

distant grunting of a wild pig, rooting for truffles, and the twittering of the birds overhead were the only sounds disturbing the afternoon peace.
    â€˜All right, Lord,’ I said, speaking out loud. ‘If You want my assistance in this matter, perhaps You could give me a helping hand.’
    Naturally, there was no reply, but I was used to that and proceeded on my way.
    Five minutes later, I caught my left foot in a rabbit hole and sprawled my length on the ground. When I tried to get up, I let out a yelp of pain. I had badly twisted my left ankle.

Five
    I swore fluently, while Hercules licked my face and stared at me with wide, questioning eyes full of doggy devotion.
    â€˜It’s all right, lad,’ I assured him, reaching for my cudgel and levering myself to my feet. ‘The pain will pass in a minute or two.’
    I spoke with more optimism than I felt, but even as I did so, I realized that, whatever damage I had done, here was the answer to my prayer. Whether true or feigned, I could plead a twisted ankle as an excuse to beg shelter for at least a night or two – perhaps more – at Croxcombe Manor.
    To begin with, the pain was excruciating, particularly traversing rough, heavily wooded ground. Twice, I had to sit down on a fallen log and put my head between my knees to prevent myself from losing consciousness; but after a while the initial agony subsided into a dull, throbbing ache and I was able to hobble along without resting too often. Eventually I staggered into a clearing where yet another charcoal burner was tending his turf-covered fire of coppiced wood. His hut inevitably stood nearby, for the fire has to be kept smouldering for four or five days and needs constant attention every hour or two, both day and night, when charcoal is being formed. (I was enough of a country boy to be familiar with the process.)
    He glanced up as I approached, alerted to my presence by the inquisitive sniffing of Hercules around his knees, and rose slowly and stiffly to greet me.
    â€˜Thou’s hurt thee leg, Chapman,’ he observed, not without a modicum of satisfaction; for, from the way he rubbed the small of his back, he seemed to be no stranger to pain himself.
    It was difficult to guess his age, his face was so weather-beaten. Yet in spite of its leathery appearance, there was an underlying pallor from his being continuously in the shade of the trees. Somehow, at some time, he had broken his rather prominent nose (or someone had broken it for him) and the rheumy eyes were grey, like the smoke from one of his fires. In spite of the August heat, he wore a woollen hood close about his face, with a badly scorched liripipe, a heavy frieze tunic, and breeches cross-gartered in the ancient Saxon fashion. There was a rough and ready air about him, but he appeared friendly enough.
    â€˜I caught my foot in a rabbit hole,’ I explained, and nodded towards his hut. ‘Could you spare me a drink of water?’
    â€˜I c’n do better nor that,’ he grunted. ‘Does thee fancy some ale?’
    I did, of course, and said so, thankfully; whereupon he relieved me of my pack and beckoned me towards his hut. The sparsely furnished interior – a table, a lamp, a stool and a rough grey blanket covering a bed of bracken – suggested a bachelor existence, for most women will make an effort to soften Spartan surroundings (a jug of wild flowers or a few scraps of brightly coloured fabric of their own weaving).
    â€˜You live alone,’ I said, not bothering to make it a question.
    â€˜Always have done, always will. Sit thee down, then.’ And my new acquaintance indicated the stool, adding, ‘Don’t believe in women. They bugger things up for a man. Th’art married, I can tell.’
    â€˜So people keep saying,’ I snapped, bending down to rub my afflicted ankle, while Hercules went snuffling after rats, which he seemed to think were making their home among the